


Spar

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-08-31
Updated: 2001-08-31
Packaged: 2018-11-20 14:40:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11337555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: A 'Leedsville' vignette





	Spar

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Spar by Skinner Box

Spar  
by Skinner Box  
Email:   
Summary: a 'Leedsville' vignette  
Rating: R  
Pairing: Spender/Krycek  
Spoilers: none in particular, vaguely Terma and One Son  
Disclaimer: The X-files and these characters belong to Chris Carter and Fox Broadcasting. I play with them out of love and for no profit.  
Note: Many thanks are owed: to drovar and the fine folk of the Spenderfic list; to a couple of Due South people: Resonant who lead me to think about the beginning rather than the end of my favorite Millay sonnet, and Kat Allison, who doesn't know me from Adam but whose Due South story 'Heavy Bag' knocked this loose from my head; and especially to Wildy for beta. All infelicities are, of course, my own.  
Archive: please ask first

* * *

Spar  
by Skinner Box

He doesn't work out when Alex is gone.

Oh, he's no lump- he runs, or rides his bike, same things he did before. Back when Jeffrey Spender was alive and well and not living in Canada.

Just not... this.

Light slants weirdly through the sliding glass door at the bare end of the living room. The hardwood's oddly springy under his naked feet as he takes himself through the warm-up. Running in place, knees high, then heels up, trying to kick himself in the ass, then that bizarre back and forth scissoring, swinging his arms back and up. Push-ups, regular ones, then the Chinese push-ups that scream across his back and shoulders, make his scarred chest feel like it's going to crack open, and always, always remind him of fucking. The first time he saw Alex do those, that smooth dip and roll of hips between the triangle of legs and arm, was the first time Jeffrey wanted the man, like a clenched fist in his gut.

Next the long slow ache of stretches, teasing his legs that one bit wider in imitation of Alex's near-split, bending his torso , reaching and pushing, trying to get his face to his knee. When they started Jeffrey would grab his knees to stretch his back. These days it's his ankles. When Alex does it he bends his arm. 

Of all the struggles and indignities of Quantico, Jeffrey hated combat instruction the most. The firing range was okay, if loud. He proved to be a decent shot, better than average by the time he died- having to re-qualify every six weeks will do that. But hand to hand- God. Jeffrey was all knees and elbows- a hopeless case from day one till the final qualification he passed with the barest margin and the instructor's mutter of "ISD." 

He'd had his own mutterings about that- "Freeze! Federal statistician!" as he drew his dummy gun before his dorm room mirror. Mostly relieved ones.

Straight kicks. Left, then right. To the groin, to the head. Roundhouse, same deal. Picture your opponent, see him. Keep your eyes on his, let peripheral vision find your target. The eyes Jeffrey sees are wide and grey-green, under barely knitted dark brows. Above that ghost of a smirk. Punches, straight and roundhouse, high and low, uppercut and hammer blow that rips through your thighs as you dip to give it force. Elbows, front, side and back, to the temple, to the gut.

It's Alex who got these too-long limbs untangled. Implacable Alex who freaking stood there until Jeffrey relented, changed his clothes-even his brief nakedness not turning the man away. Alex who took him through his paces, over and over again, day after freaking day until his body just somehow... knew.

Gloves and wrestling boots on, and over to the bag. The blows have a target now and Jeffrey mixes them up, trying not to fall into a pattern, not to let the rhythms of flesh on leather lull him into that other space- the place he goes when he runs, where the world is a blur skimmed over, and inside his head is the real landscape, vast and arctic, cool, empty, white.... Picture your opponent. Broad and tall, stocky body making shadows fall across Jeffrey's face, sweat flying from the short dark hair to sting Jeffrey's eyes.

That last step. Sparring. He couldn't do it. Hated, hated, hated it at Quantico, even the simple practice in pairs, blows that never fully connected, grapples and throws. Hated having a strange body over and under him, foreign sweat bleeding into his own. That smell of the other he had to wash off with harsh hot water. Spoor that only lovers had ever left, with his welcome and his thanks, on his body before.

But Alex pushed. Pushed and pushed and fucking pushed. Would not give a frigging inch. Called him vile names, disparaged his manhood, mocked his fitness to ever carry a badge. Finally got right in Jeffrey's sweat- and snot- and ohmigod tear- streaked face and told him harshly and at length just what he thought of Cassandra Spender, till Jeffrey lost it completely, his vision going to red haze and he snarled and struck out wildly and Alex pulled him into a one-armed clinch, tight tight against that hard sweaty body and muttered hot breath into his ear, so close.

"Get past it. Fucking get past it." 

Then let him go and stepped back and the wall inside was gone and they'd sparred for real.

After, Alex threw him a towel, pale blue they'd bought to match the bathroom tiles. Held his eyes as Jeffrey caught it.

"This is not bullshit, Jeff. This is survival and you will fucking... well... live."

Roundhouse kick left, straight punch right, roundhouse fist to the temple left. Thud and thud and thud, connecting on each remembered word and something snaps. An inner sinew, one you never find a way to stretch and warm up. Jeffrey hugs the bag to him, forehead to the slick cool brown.

Fucking Alex.

The End.

  
Archived: July 04, 2001 


End file.
